Partners in Crime
by hongkongstar
Summary: Kink Meme fic. Prompt: AxelRoxas, Handcuffs & Bottoming From The Top. Bondage, minor Sadomasochism. AU.


Roxas has been working a case for four weeks now, home sporadically and only, really, to sleep. He passes out face first into the mattress and only wakes up when his cell phone goes off. Axel makes him coffee because he's in the kitchen already and might as well, and reminds him he needs to wash at some point. All Roxas does in response is stumble around the apartment like a zombie and mutter what are most likely swear words when he knocks his shin on the sofa, and the table, and the TV stand, and the fridge door. Then he shuffles out the door and is gone, again, for two days straight.

Axel wakes up on the third morning, a Saturday, alone again. He ends up making two cups of coffee out of habit and then, out of habit, pours one down the drain. Then he leans against the counter with his coffee in his hand and thinks, _huh_. He knows, he signed up for this shit more than once - when he pushed Roxas into joining the Academy, when he supported him through the years on patrol, when he encouraged him to go for Detective. But it's days like this when he starts to get a hollow feeling in his gut, like jealously, like _neediness_.

_Well_, he thinks, _fuck this_. It's four in the afternoon already; he makes a few phone calls and by six is at one of the livelier bars downtown, halfway to being well and truly sloshed.

By one in the morning he's got bloodied knuckles and a bruised cheekbone and some scrawny vicious blonde-haired dyke rolling around on the floor at his feet, hands clasped over her nose, screaming blue murder behind the mess of blood spilling over her fingers. By one-twenty he's cuffed and sat in the back of a squad car, _delighting_ the officers with his extensive range of cop related jokes.

They shove him in an empty cell to cool off and that's when something in his chest churns unpleasantly and he drops Roxas' name and says, "no, no, really. Call him." Then he kind of half passes out on the narrow cot and wakes up when the door screams open again.

Roxas actually looks awake, for the first time in weeks, clean and well dressed and very, very pissed off. "Axel," he says. "Drunk and disorderly. What the _fuck_."

Axel waves one hand in the air vaguely. "She had it coming," he explains. "Spiteful little bitch."

The uniform outside the door rattles his keys and gives Roxas the eye, but Roxas shoots him a glare and he kind of withers back, slightly. "Yeah, yeah," Roxas says. "I'll take him."

He hauls Axel to his feet and drags him out the door, leans him against the wall while he signs several forms and then drags him through another few doors and down a corridor and up a couple of flights of stairs and that's when Axel realises they're not actually heading outside. "Where the hell are we going?"

"Shut up," Roxas says, and shoves him into a darkened room and face first into a wall, and then there's the cold click of metal around his wrists again. Then his legs are kicked out from under him and he ends up landing sharp and awkward on a chair, teetering unsteadily under him for a moment before he shifts his weight and it settles. The light flicks on, harsh and blinding, and he blinks against the sparks swarming over his vision.

"What the fuck, Rox," he says. He makes to stand up, but Roxas just pushes him back down. His eyes adjusted to the light now, he can see they're in one of the interview rooms, four chairs and a table, shabby off-white walls and dirty ceiling. Roxas sits on the table in front of him, legs spread, feet propped up on the edges of the chair. His coat and sweater have disappeared somewhere, and Axel watches as he pulls his shirt up over his head, the muscles in his stomach and chest stretching smoothly beneath his skin. "What are you doing?" he asks, voice coming out half-cracked and somewhere close to a whisper. Roxas flings the shirt off to the side somewhere and leans forward, eyes bright.

"Don't tell me this wasn't what you wanted, pulling a stunt like that," he says. Gripping the side of the table, he toes his shoes off, kicking them to the floor with a couple of dull thumps.

"You can't be - no, no," Axel says. "I'm not doing this here." He tries to stand up again, but Roxas' bare foot lands hard in the centre of his chest, and he sits back down with a soft _whump_ of forcibly exhaled air. "What if someone catches us," he hisses out, but Roxas just gives him a withering look. His foot slides slowly down Axel's chest, a steady pressure over his sternum, his navel, pausing just above his groin - then, abruptly, lifting off. Axel chokes down a disappointed sound. He should not be giving into this; it's a very very bad idea. But he's half-hard already, has been since Roxas took his shirt off, and the image Roxas makes - sat on the edge of the table with his chest bare and his legs spread - defeats Axel's protests before he can even voice them.

"I could lose my badge for this, you know," Roxas says, and his feet push Axel's knees apart harshly. "But you'd like that, wouldn't you?" His feet slide up the insides of Axel's thighs, twin lines of teasing heat, drifting higher and higher. Axel opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is something like a moan. He strains his hands against the handcuffs, the metal digging into his wrists uncomfortably, and Roxas' toes finally brush against the fabric covering his cock. He shudders, hips jerking forward slightly, and then Roxas' foot is pressed against him, solid heat against his cock, toes tracing out the shape of him through his jeans.

"Shit, Rox," Axel says, head rolling back, hips rolling up into the pressure. It's stupid how hard he is, now, nothing but Roxas' bare chest and feet to give him any incentive. He's going to come soon - he can blame that on the alcohol - if Roxas keeps up this steady massage and he can carry on with the short, staccato thrusts. He can feel it curling hot in his belly, cock twitching and jerking inside his jeans.

But then, Roxas' foot stops moving, starts pressing in, painfully pinning his hips down, crushing against his cock. His head snaps up, hips squirming backwards in the seat, trying to get away from the foot abusing him. "Fucking hell, what are you doing?!"

Roxas just looks bored, his head propped up in one hand, other arm slung over his knees like his foot isn't currently causing Axel agonising pain. "I thought this was what you wanted," he says. "Getting drunk and getting arrested. Dragging me out through the fucking rain at two in the morning back to this shithole. The only reason I can think of is to _piss me off_." His foot grinds down harder with the last three words, and Axel's vision goes a sickly mix of black and green around the edges; he can't even breathe through it.

Finally Roxas lets off, back to the painful pressure of before, but Axel can gasp down air again without feeling like he's going to throw up. "I didn't go looking to get arrested, dumbfuck," he spits out through gritted teeth. "I went out to drown my fucking sorrows cause I was sick of waiting around for your scrawny arse. I hit that bitch because she deserved it - fuck all to do with you."

Roxas leans forward, eyes wide with fake innocence. His foot shifts on Axel's cock, and Axel hisses out a swear word. "Are you saying that you missed me?" Roxas asks, voice lacking all of the false sweetness he's got pasted across his face. But it's lacking everything else, too, actually sounding sincere, despite what he's doing to Axel's delicate parts.

Axel grins, sharp and bloody; he thinks the pain's maybe getting too much now, like maybe he's on the edge of passing out. "Fucker," he says, and he means every syllable.

Then, suddenly, Roxas' foot is gone from his cock, only to hit him solid and hard in the centre of his chest. The chair tips backward, teetering on its back legs and losing out, falling back fast. He hits the ground hard, the air leaving his lungs harshly.

Roxas is off the table, kicking the upturned chair away from him and his trousers already undone, drooping low around his hipbones for a moment before he pushes them down and off. He's not wearing any underwear.

"Shit," Axel says, squirming on the floor. The cuffs are digging into the skin of his wrists, digging into the small of his back, his elbows and shoulders protesting at the weight put on them. His cock throbs in some twisted mixture of dull pain and renewed arousal.

Roxas straddles his thighs, sliding warm hands under his shirt and pushing it up to bunch under his armpits, exposing his chest and stomach. His hands frame Axel's ribcage as he leans down, mouth and tongue and teeth playing with the skin around his navel, sending waves of warm shocks through Axel's skin. His hands slide down Axel's sides, coming to rest over the zipper of his jeans. Axel hisses out between his teeth, torn between trying to get closer to Roxas' mouth or away from his hands; he doesn't think he can trust them there, not yet. "That really fucking hurt, you know," he says, and Roxas nips sharply at the thin skin of his hipbone, hands already undoing Axel's jeans and slipping inside.

"Good," he mutters, but his hands tell another story, fingertips stroking over him gently. There's still a persistent ache threading itself through his cock and the muscles of his groin, but he can't help responding to Roxas' touch, and as he starts to harden in Roxas' hand, the pain draws tighter, laced sharp with spikes of pleasure as Roxas' strokes become more confident. He's never considered himself one for any type of masochism above and beyond their usual bite-scratch-claw rutting, but Roxas has always been able to push him to dangerous extremes. The waves of pleasure washing over the deep-pressed ache of abused flesh sends skitters singing through his veins, until he can't really tell one from the other anymore. He lets loose a choked gasp, hips twitching, and Roxas' hand stills. He looks at him, concern a flicker over his face that disappears in less than a moment, and then he's sliding the head of Axel's half-hard cock into his mouth.

It's more like a physical apology than a blowjob, his tongue moving in slow, soothing strokes, lips carefully curved over his teeth, eyes half-lidded and dark as his looks up at Axel through his lashes. He takes the whole length down slowly, sucking gently, his throat open as Axel's cock slides into it.

Axel strains against the handcuffs, wanting to dig his hands into Roxas' hair, to cup his skull and feel the shape of his cock through his cheeks as they hollow out. His shoulders jerk, and Roxas slides back up, tongue flicking once over the head before pulling away completely. "No permanent damage," he says, amusement plain in his eyes, fingers tracing up the underside of Axel's erection, now fully hard. Axel bares his teeth in reply, but Roxas ignores him, reaching for his discarded trousers and pulling a condom and a packet of lube out of the pocket.

He's ripping the condom open with his teeth and Axel opens his mouth to protest - his arms are really aching now, wrists feeling sore and rubbed raw, and it's going to be hell on his shoulders if he's fucked like this - but Roxas twists the rubber down over Axel's cock and Axel shuts his mouth, eyes wide with surprise. Roxas glares, but he doesn't say anything as he opens the packet of lube, smoothing the whole lot over Axel's cock.

He shifts forward, one hand braced on Axel's chest and the other lining him up, lowering himself and Axel just feels the give of his body when he's opening his mouth- "Wait wait, Rox, the cuffs," he says. "Please."

"No," Roxas says, and then he's pushing down, gritting his teeth, thigh muscles flexing and the line of his neck sharp and taut.

Axel has to fight not to buck his hips. Roxas is tight around him; he hasn't stretched himself, and it's been so so long since they've done this anyway - just a few sleepy handjobs the rare times they'd ended up in bed together, a blowjob or two in the shower. It hadn't even really been about the sex for Axel; just needing to remember what Roxas' skin felt like under his, the way his body responded, what the sweat that gathered across his stomach tasted like.

But now, he can't even touch, hands caught tight behind his back as Roxas arches, takes the last of him in, breath coming short before his thighs strain and he lifts himself back up again, pushing down hard. His head tilts back, sweat gleaming across his collarbone and chest, the arched curve of his exposed throat an invitation Axel can't take.

He bucks instead, bracing his feet and thrusting up as Roxas sinks down. His trapped hands scratch at the floor beneath him, clawing for purchase, frustrated and desperate to touch Roxas' skin. "Rox, Rox," he gasps out, Roxas leaning back to curve his hands against Axel's thighs, bracing himself to move better.

"_Yeah_," he says, but it's more of a sigh, an exhalation of breath. He meets Axel's stunted thrusts smoothly; pupils blown and eyes caught dark. His cock curves up against his belly, hard and untouched, leaking pre-come in clear trails. Axel groans, deep and low in his chest, watching the muscles of Roxas' chest and stomach as they bunch and flex, his thighs tensing and taut, his cock jerking and twitching with each downward press to Axel's body.

He's close again, close like he was earlier with Roxas' foot pressed against his crotch, and really, it should be better than this, but it's been so long and Roxas is so tight around him, lithe and gorgeous as he writhes over him, body flushed and gleaming with sweat, eyes and cock dark with pleasure. He wants to touch, so so badly, press fingertips and thumbs into all the dips and spans of smooth skin that he knows make Roxas arch and shudder, run his mouth down his centre, teeth and tongue and lips and bring him off, hot and shaking. His wrists twist against the cuffs, fingers scratching at the skin of his own back as dark heat claws itself through his skin, bunching and thundering through him, and he thrusts up in the smooth give of Roxas' body and can't, can't-_can't_ hold on anymore. He comes, back arching and hips jerking, muscles shaking, the back of his head hitting the floor so hard he can feel it behind his eyes.

"Fuck, Axel," Roxas is saying, and when Axel's vision stops blurring so much he can see Roxas curved out over him, thrusting into his hands, now, hips jerking erratic and desperate. He comes in long pulses over Axel's bunched up shirt, across his chest and bare stomach, body trembling and tightening down around Axel's softening and over-sensitive cock. Axel grits his teeth against the discomfort, more interested in watching Roxas as the tension slides out of his body, limbs turning smooth and liquid.

Eventually, he gets his breath back, and pulls off of Axel slowly, holding the condom in place. He stands on legs that don't seem quite up to taking his weight, pulling his trousers over and pulling the key out of the pockets, crouching behind Axel and undoing the cuffs.

As soon as he's free, Axel rubs his wrists – sore and red in broad lines around the narrowest part – pulls the condom off his dick and ties it. Then he catches Roxas' arm, dragging him around and crushing his mouth against his, the same thrill running up his spine after all these years when Roxas' mouth opens and Roxas kisses back, sharp and fighting, teeth and tongue and wet smooth heat. They break apart, but Axel's hand stays tight at Roxas' elbow.

"Let's go home," Roxas says, breath warm against the skin under Axel's ear. Axel's eyes drift closed for a moment, revelling in the heat of Roxas against him, his skin beneath his fingertips, before letting go.


End file.
